


Draco's Scars

by venis_envy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Secrets, Slash, Wrists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Remix of Draco’s Wrists by  vaysh11<br/>After his time served in Azkaban, Draco is released into a world he doesn't quite know how to be a part of anymore, and isn't even sure he wants to. The only thing from his past he even cares to hang onto, isn't a thing at all. He doesn't want Potter to see the Mark on his forearm or the scar slashed across it and be reminded of a past they'd both rather forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draco's Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Draco's Wrists](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/20752) by vaysh. 



> Written for LJ's HD_Remix, volume 5. Remix of vaysh11's Draco's Wrists.
> 
> God, vaysh, I sincerely hope I didn’t bastardise your words too severely here. I love everything of yours, and it was so hard choosing just one of your gorgeous fics to play with. (It damn near killed me trying to decide between Draco’s Wrists and The Water View.) Immeasurable gratitude to my pre-reader/beta friends for grabbing my hands and dragging me through to the end despite all the real life chaos that threatened to drain me of all will to write/edit/breathe. Seriously, best friends ever. Also, to the fest mods and proofer. Jesus, Mary, and Lucifer, how do I even dress myself in the morning without all of you?

Najac is a small Muggle village in south France comprised of beautiful stone buildings that seem to be as old as the ground they stand on. It’s mostly known for its farming commune, but also widely popular among both Muggle and wizard tourists. Draco likes the idea of the relatively quiet countryside, but it’s good to know there are things to do other than stew in silence and  _think._

An old and rarely used Black familial home lies on the ridge overlooking the Aveyron River, the small bend allowing for a slow settle in the current that’s just calm enough to create a gentle mist on the water each morning. Draco sits on the balcony at the back of the cottage, sipping his tea and watching the gentle breeze stir the leaves that cling to their branches below. The only sounds to break through the silence of early dawn are those of the livestock in neighbouring farms and the distant  _plunk_  of the fishermen’s lines hitting the water.

It’s so commonplace here. Draco has removed himself from the wizarding world, fading into the monochrome backdrop of this mundane life like some reclusive Squib, but he reasons it’s better than the alternative. What was left for him in Britain, after all?

…

Against his mother’s wishes, Draco left his place as Lord of the Manor in Wiltshire shortly after his father’s funeral in the rose garden. The sickly sweet stench of wilting lilies and orchids and roses had perfumed the air, distracting from his half-hearted attempt at a proper eulogy. He’d stood at the pulpit, methodically reading the words that were Spelled onto the card, all the while thinking of how apropos the rotting stink of the flowers had been; how representative of his own existence they actually were. Something intended to brighten the world, to add beauty to what could otherwise be such a dreary subsistence, and yet, never given the chance to accomplish anything, merely there to do the bidding of others.

Draco has never been sure of anything in his life, really. Not of the validity of his father’s beliefs, not of his own decision to take the Mark, not of the loyalty of his friends throughout school, not even—odd as it may seem—his place in the wizarding world. One thing he is certain of now, though, is his desire to live his life exactly as he wants with no regard to anyone else.

...

Tugging his sleeves down into place, Draco smoothes away the non-existent wrinkles before fastening his cufflinks. He’s got nowhere to be today—or any other day, for that matter—but outside of the dank, confining walls of Azkaban, Draco is free to dress as he pleases, even if no occasion calls for propriety. It’s one of the very few rights he’s earned back since his release.

He spends the morning much like any other, out on the patio, breathing in the fresh, open air and listening to the sounds of solitude, enjoying the quiet until it’s interrupted.

The heavy wooden door creaks open, and a house-elf—Nimbie, Draco thinks its name is—shuffles timidly out before him and stands wringing its tea towel nervously. He can’t exactly fault the two house-elves that keep the cottage for their timorous-yet-finicky behaviour since his arrival last winter. Since Najac became a Muggle village centuries ago, few Blacks cared to stay in the cottage here. It’s mostly been used over the years for hiding, evading, escaping any number of things. Nimbie and Daisy aren’t used to having a master present to constantly serve, or, as is the case with Draco, to avoid unless needed.

“Master,” the elf says, ears folded back as it stares down at the ground beside Draco’s foot. “A visitor for you, sir.”

His eyes widen as he swallows down a hot mouthful of tea. Draco doesn’t need to ask who it is. Only two people call on him here in this place, and his mother has already been this week.

“Show him out to me and leave us,” Draco says.

He sets his cup down, straightens his back and replaces his expression of surprise with one of mute apathy.

Potter steps out onto the balcony and takes his usual seat at the other side of the small table without waiting for an invitation. In all his frequent visits to Najac, Potter hasn’t once asked Draco why he left Wiltshire in the first place. More importantly still, he doesn’t feel the need to ask him to return. Draco is grateful for the silent understanding between them, the quiet agreement that Potter will not pry, and that Draco will, in turn, give him what he’s come for. Or perhaps it’s the other way around, and Draco is the one taking what he needs from The Chosen One.

Potter visits under the pretence of checking up on the former prisoner. It isn’t a probation; Draco’s past that point now. The only thing still being restricted is his use of magic. It’s some part of Potter’s Prisoners’ Rights campaign, or so he claims. Draco sees it as a bit more than that, but despite the smug smile Potter wears while calling, Draco doesn’t turn him away, starved for the other man’s company as he is.

Potter encourages him to speak, even if only a little. He baits Draco with arguments that have long ago lost their heat, tempts him with talk of politics, and finally, settles on telling Draco of books he’s reading. Potter knows Draco loves to read, even if he hasn’t had the initiative to do so in some time. He tells Draco of a tale he’s read—a children’s story—of a unicorn who cut off his horn to play with the horses. Draco knows the story well, and he tells Potter as much, but he’s sure that isn’t why the other man chose to share it.

The conversation seems to flow easily after that; Potter brings news of Quidditch scores and government happenings, he tells Draco how his mother is fairing in Wiltshire, and of upcoming charity balls which are being hosted at the Manor. Draco scoffs at this news. He isn’t sure if his mother means well for the wizarding world, or if she’s just trying to restore the Malfoy name. Either way, he can’t imagine anyone who lived through the war would want to set foot in the Manor, charity or no. Draco certainly doesn’t. It’s probably why his mother doesn’t even bother sharing this news with him herself.

Typically, when the mundane chatter dwindles, Potter will ask Draco if he needs anything. He knows Draco rarely uses magic since being released from Azkaban, despite the fact that Potter returned his wand as soon as his probation had been lifted. Spells cast by Draco’s hand are monitored by the Department of Magical Misuse, even though there’s been no misuse in a very long time, and he’d rather go on pretending in his own world that no one notices him at all. No one but Potter, that is. Draco shows him what it is he needs, right there on the balcony overlooking the quiet, twisting river, or inside the cottage against a cracking plaster wall that no one’s ever bothered to repair, or even bent over the back of the sofa, desperate and hard and needy for any amount of affection the other man can provide. Draco takes it all.

This time, though, as the conversation abates and the house-elves have cleared mostly empty plates from their dinner for two, Draco takes Potter’s hand and leads him inside. This isn’t new for them. It isn’t always hard and impetuous. Sometimes, they barely have the presence of mind to hold off through proper greetings before they’re tugging at clothes and pulling buttons and zips, but sometimes, it’s all soft touches and tongues against skin, fingers combing through hair, and whispered words like breath between them.

The bedrooms in the cottage are all the same, pale colours and intricate, scrolling designs adorning the furniture, decorated in the style of Louis XV, and Draco thinks he may be growing to actually prefer the look. It’s nothing like the dark, rich colours and sharp lines of the Manor. Potter, with his raven-black hair and sun-kissed skin, is a beautiful contrast against such a fair backdrop. Draco loves having Potter in his bedroom, the four walls so confining when he’s there by himself, but providing the perfect amount of assurance when it’s the two of them. Draco allows himself to believe—for just that little while—that the walls can hold Potter in, keep him there.

Draco takes Potter’s glasses off so the edge of the frames doesn’t cut into his abdomen as Potter licks and sucks a path across his pale body. He holds back his urge to goad Potter, to twist his fingers into the other man’s hair and tug him to where he wants him, to force him back into the rough games they used to play during the first few months of visits. Draco knows Potter needs this part, though, this plotting before the actual claiming, and he’s used to it now; maybe even needs it himself.

He counts himself lucky. It isn’t likely his charming personality that’s so irresistible to The Chosen One, Draco’s sure. It’s the limp wrists and the narrow waist, the pale arse covered in pink silk and lace knickers that Harry Potter finds most appealing. And, of course, the wizarding world’s Saviour would never let that little fact be known to more than a couple of house-elves.

There are dark spots on the ceiling of the cottage; soot from where candles were allowed to burn too high without the aid of magic, or perhaps with. Draco stares at the grey smudges, trying to make shapes of nothing, trying to distract his thoughts from the inevitable loneliness that will overtake him as soon as Potter is gone again.

Potter’s fingers trace the edge of lace at Draco’s hips, followed by the damp warmth of his tongue. His breath is hot against the satiny fabric at the centre, and he drags his tongue against the outline of Draco’s cock, causing it to fill, stiffen to the point of threatening to tear the delicate fabric.

The need never seems to abate entirely, no matter how much of himself he gives to Potter, how much he allows himself to take. There’s a constant  _want_  twisting deep in his gut, urging him on from one encounter to the next, and Draco wonders what that says about him exactly; that he doesn’t care about being away from the world, forgotten by everyone and everything he used to know, as long as he still has  _him._  His days consist entirely of waiting, hoping that Potter will see fit to pay him a visit.

After, Draco feigns sleep while Potter lies in bed next to him, trailing warm fingers over exposed skin. He keeps still, enjoying the brief gift of such intimate affection before it’s gone again.

He likes to tell himself that he's long since buried his desire to kiss Potter's lips; his mouth has been everywhere but, after all. But it's days like this one, after long talks in the open breeze, Potter’s eyes showing nothing but kindness, the touch of his fingers leaving a wake of longing against Draco’s bare skin, that he thinks maybe, just maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to allow himself that small pleasure.

He pushes the thought aside, deems it unreasonable.

...

Potter is demanding sometimes, forceful and smug in a way that Draco doesn’t remember seeing before that visit in the infirmary where Draco had tried to escape his company in the first place. But there’s always a level of kindness in his touch, a gentleness that Draco doesn’t always accept from him. On the occasions when Potter’s had too much to drink throughout the day, Draco notices he’s more touchy. Soft, unintelligible words whispered against Draco’s skin, tender kisses dropped along the white lines that scar his chest as Potter holds Draco’s shirt open. Open, but never off. Draco won’t allow that. He doesn’t want Potter to see the Mark and stop calling. Doesn’t want Potter to see the silvery scar in sharp relief against the inky black on his wrist and be reminded of his visit to Azkaban or Draco’s cowardly attempt to get out.

Wands weren’t allowed in the infirmary where they took Azkaban’s prisoners for treatment—no magic, no potions, no risk of escape. And so Draco was given no Dittany for his wrist. The mediwitch in charge merely cleansed his wound with surgical spirits, sutured the flesh together, and wrapped it. It was crude, grotesque, even, but it did the job, Draco supposed. A silver scar mars his skin where the blade cut through, but it’s nothing in comparison with the other mark that adorns his forearm.

…

When the spaces between their visits stretch too thin, so does Draco’s patience. It’s during those meetings—when they finally come—that he lets his deepest contempt surface. Draco, frustrated and alone, cut off from the world by his own choice, but no less angry for it, and Potter, his very presence like the hand dangling bitter memories of Draco’s failures over his head, always just out of reach where they can never be snatched away, hidden, or forgotten.

Potter’s visits have become more frequent recently, though, and Draco doesn’t question his reason for this. They’re having dinner on the terrace of the L'Oustal del Barry, surrounded by Muggles and glowing lanterns and the mild summer air. Potter is telling Draco about a new telescope he’s ordered away for; how he’d like to bring it here with him next time he comes.

“The stars out here are incredible,” he says. “You’d never know there were so many, living in the city with all that light pollution.” He smiles at Draco before taking a sip of his wine and setting the glass back down. “Maybe we could make a weekend of it.”

“Perhaps,” Draco replies, pushing the food on his plate around with his fork, suddenly not very hungry at all. There’s a small pang of hope curling up inside him, allowing him to believe for a moment that Potter really does see him as more than just a secret fuck. He swallows it down. “If you’re partial to the night sky, there are plenty of places closer to home you could go to view it,” he says.

“Mmm,” Potter hums before swallowing another sip of his wine. “Maybe,” he says with a dry laugh, and Draco thinks he almost catches something there. Almost. Balancing on the edge of Potter’s laughter, but when Draco looks again, it’s gone.

…

“Let me,” Potter whispers, voice shaking the quiet solitude of the night. He tugs at the plackets of Draco’s shirt, twists the fabric in his fists.

Draco clings to him, wrapping him in a tight embrace as he licks and sucks at Potter’s neck in an attempt to drive the thought from the other man’s mind.

“I want to see all of you,” he says before kissing his way along Draco’s jaw.

Draco arches back, offering his neck to Potter to avoid the temptation of turning his head, finding Potter’s lips with his own and causing more questions than he has answers for. Potter isn’t here for some fairytale romance rubbish, and Draco would do well to remember that.

“Draco.” His name spoken against the underside of his jaw as Potter presses against him, holds him close, causes a shiver down Draco’s spine.

He’s holding perfectly still, they both are now, and Draco can almost hear the cogs of Potter’s thoughts as they tick and turn and slide into place.

He sits up, the abrupt break in contact allowing a chill to rush over Draco’s exposed skin.

The look in Potter’s eyes is angry, and somehow defeated all at once.

“Turn over,” he says, voice stern, lacking the emotion it had held only moments ago.

Draco does, pressing his face into the feathery pillow as Potter’s fingers dig harshly into his hips, lifting his arse higher and coaxing Draco onto his knees.

Potter’s fingers trace the edges of the silky knickers Draco is wearing, slipping beneath the elastic as his dull nails scrape into tender skin. He doesn’t remove them, just holds them off to the side as he fucks into Draco with his fingers and his tongue, breathing filthy words against skin and satin.

Potter bunches the fabric of Draco's shirt into his fist, pulling it tight over shoulders that don't resist as he uses the grip as leverage to pull Draco close. Close enough for Potter to impale Draco on his cock, fuck him until the filthy sound of skin slapping and breaths hissing fill Draco’s senses, driving away all other thoughts.

...

Draco doesn’t see him again after that for what feels like ages, and he wonders if that was it, if Potter finally tired of going to such lengths, traveling a great distance, just for some quiet country air to soil with the sounds of his debauchery.

His mother knows about Potter’s visits, knows there’s more to them than just checking up on a former prisoner to whom Potter had no real obligations. Even when Draco thinks he’s doing well to keep to himself, he talks. Without even realising it, he confesses his fears to the only person he’s ever truly been able to trust. Or perhaps she knows him so well he doesn’t have to actually say anything. Nevertheless, she knows.

She tells Draco that Potter— _the boy,_  she calls him, regardless of the fact he’s now nearly thirty years old—must really care to keep coming back despite Draco’s particularly misanthropic demeanour. He pretends he isn’t listening to her, stares off into the distance. Orange and pink streaks paint the western horizon as the sun sinks below the distant mountains. The days are getting longer as the year progresses, and with them, inane visits from his mother and lectures about pulling out of his so-called self-loathing solitude.

"So many people change themselves, who they're meant to be. They try so hard to conform to a certain set of standards that they forget themselves along the way. It's rare, Draco," she says, "to find someone who cares about you for who you are, who doesn't expect you to change. And if you're fortunate enough to find such a person, you should accept it for what it is. Stop punishing yourself. You've suffered enough." She kisses him on the forehead and strokes her fingers through his hair before Apparating away. She's always been one for dramatic exits.

…

Potter returns, eventually, and it really hasn’t been as long as Draco’s imagination has led him to believe since the last time. He’s brought his telescope, as promised, and curiously, something else.

“It’s a present,” he tells Draco. “Something to brighten your mood.”

It isn’t what Draco expects to see when he lifts the lid off the box. He was certain it would be something frilly Potter would want him to put on during their time together later. It isn’t. What he finds in the box instead is a book, a children’s book of wizard tales that Draco recognises from his childhood.

“It’s got the tale of the unicorn who wanted to play with horses,” Potter says, his gaze focused on the book in Draco’s hands. For once, he looks almost unsure of himself. “I just thought...I thought you might like to have it.”

Draco nods, examining the cover of the book and tracing the letters of the title with his fingertips. He isn’t sure what to say, so he settles for a thank you before setting the book aside and tentatively climbing into Potter’s lap. It’s a more affectionate gesture than he usually affords himself, but Draco reasons it’s all right in light of the gift giving. He presses his face against Potter’s neck, breathing in the familiar warmth, and only startles slightly when Potter’s arms wrap around him, holding him there.

Draco has never wanted to kiss him more than he does in that moment, the urge almost painful in its intensity. He presses his lips to Potter’s neck instead, whispering another thank you against his skin and relishing in the warmth of Potter’s body against his own, fingers trailing up and down the nape of Draco’s neck.

…

Draco blinks his eyes open, sunshine streaming through the curtains in his room. He rarely sleeps past dawn anymore, too restless to stay in bed long. Today is different. Today, Draco has a reason to stay in the comfortable nest of blankets. He feels Potter’s gaze on him long before the arm draped over his waist tightens its hold.

“Come back with me,” Potter says, voice quiet in the stillness of the morning. It’s almost as if he’s talking only to himself, but when Draco turns toward him, Potter presses a kiss to his forehead and repeats his request.

Draco doesn’t answer, isn’t sure how to.

“I don’t mean now. Not if you aren’t ready, but...someday, maybe you’ll consider it.” There’s a long stretch of silence before Potter adds quietly, “I won’t leave you,” and Draco isn’t sure if he means now, no matter Draco’s decision, or then, if he chooses to go back to London. Either way, the implication behind Potter’s words is more than Draco had ever allowed himself to hope for.

Potter's fingertips trace the edge of Draco's jaw. He licks his lips as his gaze falls on Draco's mouth, and then he moves in slowly. Draco's heart hammers wildly in his chest, a mixture of excitement and anxiety, but before he has a chance to decide which one outweighs the other, Potter is tipping Draco's chin back and pressing a kiss to the rapidly thundering pulse in his throat. The faintest twinge of disappointment cuts through Draco, and he knows without question he would have allowed it, that he wanted Potter to kiss him.

He rolls Potter onto his back and straddles his hips, scraping blunt nails down Potter’s bare chest and across his nipples, earning himself a smile and a hum of gratitude from the other man. Potter’s fingers bite into the naked skin of Draco’s hips, hard enough to bruise, as he pulls him down and rocks up against him.

“Are you trying to distract me?” he asks with a quiet laugh.

Draco looks down at him, offering a tiny half smile of his own before taking Potter’s cock in his hand. It’s hot and heavy, the skin so soft against his own. He wraps his long fingers around both of their pricks, stroking slowly and watching as Potter’s eyes flutter closed, head presses back into the pillow. The long line of his throat is a tempting display, and Draco leans forward, licking, sucking, and nipping at the flesh there.

Potter writhes beneath him, fingers trailing up Draco’s sides, skating along the smooth skin beneath his shirt. He shifts his hips, thrusting into Draco’s fist and groaning. Then, with a noise of frustration, Potter rolls them over, reversing their positions and settling firmly between Draco’s thighs. He kisses Draco’s neck, tender and soft despite the tension that’s obvious in the rest of his body.

Draco’s hand is still loosely gripping their cocks, but he’s hardly able to pay attention to what he's doing with the way Potter’s mouth feels on his body. Potter must notice the distraction, too. He reaches down between them, wraps his fingers around Draco’s wrist and pulls his hand free, lifting it to the pillow beside Draco’s head and pinning it there. The circle of Potter’s fingers grips tightly around the cuff of Draco’s shirt, the only barrier between Potter and the stained skin of Draco’s past. He flicks his tongue against Draco’s nipple, twisting the fingers of his free hand into Draco’s shirt and letting out another groan of frustration before lifting his gaze to meet Draco's.

“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, and both of them still their movements, breathing heavily as they stare at one another.

Potter shakes his head, drops his forehead to Draco’s chest, stays there until their breathing levels out.

He presses a kiss to Draco’s chest and then sighs. “Why won’t you fucking let me in?” he says, and Draco doesn’t know if it’s a question he’s even meant to hear, let alone answer. He isn’t entirely sure what Potter means, though he has a fairly good idea if the way Potter is still gripping his shirt in an angry fist is anything to go by.

Draco thinks for the first time, that maybe he should allow Potter to see all of him, all of his hidden skin, Mark and scar. Perhaps that would put an end to Potter’s silly notion of Draco going back to the wizarding world with him, remind him of exactly who Draco is and what they’ve always been to each other. He stares up at the ceiling, lost in thought, lost in the realisation that this could be the last time he feels the weight of Potter’s body against his, the heat of his breath on Draco’s skin.

He squeezes his eyes shut, combing his fingers through Potter’s hair, and then shifts to sit up. Potter moves back to accommodate, a sad look in his eyes as he searches Draco’s.

Draco shrugs the shirt off his shoulders and watches Potter’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, eyes fixed on the newly exposed skin he’s never actually seen before. He flinches as Potter leans forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Draco’s shoulder and sighs again.

“Please,” he says, the desperation in that one word causing Draco’s heart to ache. “I just...I want to see all of you.”

Potter’s hands slide down Draco’s biceps, pushing his shirt farther down and chasing it with heat of his lips, the tip of his tongue. Draco shudders at the touch, the intimacy of it. Potter’s mouth is back on Draco’s shoulder as he slides the shirt down his forearms, sucking bruises into pale skin and groaning in satisfaction. Draco pulls his hands free of the shirt, more naked and exposed than he’s ever been since taking the Mark.

He lifts his left hand, rakes his fingers through Potter’s hair, holds him there against Draco’s neck, not willing to let him move away yet, not wanting him to look, to see, even though Draco has already allowed it to get this far. Potter continues to lick and suck at Draco’s skin, but slowly reaches his hand up to the back of his own neck, encircling Draco’s wrist again and pulling it away. He moves back from Draco, holding the Marked arm between them as Draco leans back, supporting his weight with his free hand.

The silence stretches so tightly between them that Draco’s heart begins to beat erratically and he isn’t breathing, just watching Potter as he stares down at the impurity displayed before him now. Potter’s other hand comes up, slowly, tentatively. His fingertips trace the path of blue veins under thin skin all the way down to the Mark, and then he does something Draco surely doesn’t expect. Potter leans down and kisses the silver scar, holds his mouth there against the marked skin, then smiles— _smiles_ —and looks up at Draco.

“Did you really think this would matter to me? That I didn’t already know?” Draco shakes his head and looks away. Of course Potter knew.

With gentle fingertips on Draco’s jaw, Potter tilts his head back until Draco is staring into those deep, penetrating eyes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. His actions have already spoken all the words needed between them, and now it’s Draco’s turn to respond. His stomach twists, heart pounds, breath hitches, and then he’s closing the small space between them, arm wrapped around Potter’s neck to hold him close.

There’s a small sound of defeat or surrender, and Draco thinks it may be his own, but he can’t quite care right now. He brushes his lips against Potter’s, catching the huff of surprise from the other man’s mouth as he tilts his head, swipes his tongue out against Potter’s bottom lip and fits their parted lips together. For a moment, it’s only that, the press of their mouths, shared breath in the space between, and tiny noises of contentment coming from one or both of them. There’s an overwhelming feeling of closeness that Draco doesn’t quite know what to do with. And then it’s more. It’s demanding and severe, but controlled and gentle all at once, and Draco loses himself in it, loses himself in the heat of Potter’s mouth and intensity of their shared need for this.  _All_  of this. It’s electrifying, sending a shock through Draco’s whole body, and he doesn’t know how much time actually passes in which they just kiss, parting only for gasps of air between the press of their lips and the slide of their tongues.

It’s too much, and not enough. Draco wants to stay like this forever, wants to crawl inside Potter’s body and claim him as his own, possess him,  _keep_  him and never let him go. And who knew acceptance could feel this way? Could fill Draco with these half-crazed desires and practically choke him with want?

Potter pulls back just slightly and hisses a sharp breath between his teeth. His fingers reach up to the back of his neck and curl around Draco’s.

“Easy,” he says before kissing Draco again, and only then does Draco realise how forcefully he’s been holding Potter to him. Angry red crescents mark the side of Potter’s neck where Draco’s nails dug in, and he pulls his hand away quickly as he examines them, wide-eyed.

“I’m not leaving,” Harry says, pressing Draco back into the mattress and hooking an arm under his knee before licking into Draco’s mouth again. “I told you, I’m not leaving.”

 


End file.
